


The Deep Places

by OtterMcKilbourne (p_3a)



Series: NaNoWriMo 2014 [20]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2671964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p_3a/pseuds/OtterMcKilbourne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrathion pays a visit to Deepholm.</p><p>Warning: self-harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deep Places

Wrathion had to admit he was nervous.

In one way, he was returning home. But it was a home he'd never visited before - and the housemistress that watched over it was the kind of being who would be able to swallow him whole in a single gulp and let him never see the light of day again, if she wished it.

Wrathion  _liked_  the light of day, and very much hoped he would get to see it once more after today.

The Maelstrom was bad enough on its own, even without worrying about what lay on the other side. He was in his humanoid form, bundled up in a heavy waxed coat to protect him against the sea-spray that splashed angrily every few moments against the rock he and his champion were stood on; she was wearing no such protection, apparently content with a kilt and mantle. Mortals were strange. He could see the huge molten clawmarks left by his father in the surrounding terrain, and despite many of them having been worn smooth by months of aggressive erosion, they still frightened him somewhat. And then, of course, the Maelstrom itself: huge, angry, deep and filled with such terrifying power that Wrathion thought only a monster like his father, or a hero like his champion, could fly through it without feeling fear. He was neither.

His champion placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. She was small and gentle, for an orc, but a skilled shaman attuned closely to the Earth and exactly the kind of companion he needed on a trip like this. "You are ready, your Highness?"  
"Yes. Yes, I think I am."  
"Let us hope that you are strong enough to make the trip," she smirked, and Wrathion grinned back, recognising it for the joke it was. Of course he was strong enough; they both knew that.

She calmed her windrider - she had raised him from an egg, she'd told him once, and he was very loyal and, though not fearless, deeply trusting in his handler. She had never allowed him to come to harm, and so he would carry her and her draconic passenger into the heart of the storm without hesitation. Wrathion clambered onto the saddle, and shuffled right up behind his champion, clasping his hands around her waist. For steadiness, and absolutely not for comfort whatsoever, he told himself silently.

The wyvern took off, and his windrider training became apparent immediately. Wrathion might have been capable of flight, and a moderately sized drake in his own right by now, but he'd never been  _taught_  how to do it - and in this environment, with violent storm winds whipping them every which way and threatening to toss them into the turbulent ocean if they didn't catch the gales just right, that made all the difference. The windrider soared with ease at a steep angle towards the heart of the Maelstrom, catching the perfect current of air to carry them right into the centre.

Sea spray hit Wrathion's face, and for a moment he was concerned - his eyes screwed shut, not out of fear, he said to himself, not out of fear, it was just to stop from drying them out on the awful winds - they'd hit the waves, but then suddenly the noise of the storm was behind them. It was replaced by what Wrathion could only describe as a  _pressure_ , exerted equally on his other senses as well as his hearing - and it was as comforting as it was distinct. He found he could, without opening his physical eyes, easily find a sense of what the landscape looked like.

"You can stop clawing my stomach now," his champion said.  
"...oh. I wasn't," Wrathion lied, loosening his grip and awkwardly patting at the bruises he'd left on her unusually thin skin.

Finally, he  _did_  open his eyes. The first thing that drew his gaze, of course, was the trail of his father's blood that lead from the Temple to the outer reaches of the cavity where his humongous form had been resting. It was at least a mile long, and probably about half again as wide. And it gave Wrathion the chills to look at, even years after the Cataclysm itself. If that was the footprint that Lady Therazane was expecting him to fill, then it was no wonder it had been so difficult to obtain her permission to come here.

Tearing his eyes away from it, he turned them to the rest of the area. The aura of the place was generally more peaceful than it was described to him, too; he was glad that most of the furious screaming he'd heard had filled the realm was now focussed solely around the pools of his father's blood. The rest was calm; patient and peaceful. The ponderous pillars, now repaired, stood with barely a crack where they'd broken and fallen. The temple itself was silent and still, with only the bright crackle of energy up its centre to disturb the peace, no mortal voices or angry elementals assaulting its walls.

His champion landed the wyvern by the entrance to the Temple, and Wrathion clambered off it.  
"Diamant should arrive soon to escort us to the Throne," she explained. "My wyvern will wait in the roost inside the temple for our return."

That seemed fair to Wrathion. He sat down on the temple steps and rubbed his forehead, a little, willing his mind to stop reeling from the intense trip through the breach, while he waited for her to sort her mount out and return here.

What he didn't anticipate, somehow, despite it making every bit of sense, was how  _long_  it would take Diamant the Patient to arrive at the temple steps.

He'd fallen asleep by the time he felt his champion's delicate fingers pinching his ear, urging him awake.  
"Do try to make a good impression, Your Highness," she muttered, helping him to his feet and glancing at Diamant apologetically.  
"Yes, and do try not to lecture me," he snarked back.

Diamant let them ride on his back, and the journey was not as slow and boring as Wrathion had expected it to be. Mostly because Diamant made surprisingly good conversation.

"You carry the blood of Neltharion in your veins," he said, to start off with.  
"Yes," Wrathion replied. "I'm his son." That's rather the entire point to me being here, he added mentally, but he had the smarts not to say it out loud.  
"But not Deathwing," Diamant continued. "Your blood is not filled with madness and chaos. It is calm."  
"I can make my blood whatever I like to," Wrathion said. "I can turn it into powerful spells, or use it to temper weapons. But I prefer it to be calm when I'm not doing anything important."  
"You should not tell Therazane that," Diamant said, and he chuckled like a landslide.

There was silence. Wrathion huffed, quietly, but Diamant either didn't notice or didn't care. Eventually, he continued.  
"Therazane may ask to see your blood. She may not settle for senses as I do."  
"Well, hopefully she won't kill me to do that," Wrathion snorted. "Will a cut on the wrist suffice?"  
"That will not kill you?"  
"No."  
"But it will spill your blood to the ground for her servants to see?"  
"Yes."  
"Then it will suffice."

His champion said nothing. She had her eyes closed, and was humming faintly, mostly in harmony if not in pitch with Diamant's voice; she seemed content to meditate, and Wrathion saw no reason to interrupt her.

Wrathion was glad Diamant was there to carry them up the steep incline; it reminded him faintly of the Hundred Steps below the Tavern in the Mists, though much more perilous for a small mortal to attempt to climb. It was designed for giants like Diamant, after all.

The entrance to the throne itself had no justice done to it even by the numerous illustrations and gnomish pictographs Wrathion had studied when he'd been preparing to come here. The light spilling forth from it was glorious, though altogether less...  _effervescent_  than the Light his friend Anduin used; it spilled out like ancient riverwater, not fresh bubbling springwater. It was deep, rich red, and Wrathion swore a breeze - the only one he'd felt so far in this strange, still place - ruffled the curl that had fallen loose of his ponytail when they passed the threshold of the throne room.

Therazane herself took up, for a few moments, all of his attention. She was, of course, even larger than Diamant. Her presence was all of Deepholm - huge, ancient, and just a little bit terrifying. Rocks fell from beneath her and struck the ground, causing smaller rocks to fly up and adhere immediately to where the other had just fallen from; the gems on her magnificent form glinted in the unnatural-seeming light that suffused this place. Finally, Wrathion raised his gaze to her face. She was glaring at him. He shrank down.

"Put them down," she ordered to Diamant. He did so, gently.  
His champion stood up straight, then bowed deeply. "Lady Therazane, I present Wrathion, the last true heir of the Black Dragonflight."  
Therazane's gaze intensified. Wrathion forced himself to stand up straight.  
"Let me see his blood," she said.

At first, Wrathion was worried her guards would take that as an indication to attack, but instead she looked expectantly at his champion. She nodded, then took Wrathion's wrist in her hand. With her ritual knife, she made an incision on his wrist, along the scar left from where he cut his own self for spellcasting; the blood rolled out of it and dripped onto the floor. After a moment, she healed the cut again.

Therazane considered.

"His blood is not tainted," she announced. And although only two people in the room needed to breathe, there was still a sense of everybody having let out a held breath at once.

"Why do you come to me, Black Prince?" she said, although nobody had introduced him by that title. Wrathion noticed, but decided not to comment.  
"I wished to seek audience with you, in order to better understand the damage my family have caused to your realm," he said, reciting the practiced lines, "and perhaps begin to make recompense - with a view to forming an allegiance."  
She laughed. "What makes you think I would ally with a black dragon again, little whelp?"  
Wrathion's heart was pounding in his ears, and no doubt Therazane was aware of that. "Because when the Legion comes, Lady Therazane, all of Azeroth - and its elemental planes - may fall beyond repair if we do not stand united."  
"And you think  _you_ are the one we should stand united beneath?" That harsh laugh again, like diamonds smashing glass.  
"Not beneath, beside," he said, determination in his tone. "We all need to stand beside one another to stem the oncoming tide, or we will  _all_  crumble in the face of it."

Therazane was silent for a few moments. "We will test you," she said, eventually. "And decide if you are worthy. Diamant, take them to the Crumbling Depths. Let us see what this whelp's earth-shaping skills are like."

Although it wasn't a 'yes', it wasn't a 'no', either. And that, at least, was enough that Wrathion gave his champion a small smile as Diamant escorted them out of the throne.


End file.
